


We Are Made of Star Stuff

by AngelaChase



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Gap Filler, Kash Karib Bashing, Kash and Grab (Shameless US), Light BDSM, M/M, Minor Ian Gallagher/Kash Karib, References to Carl Sagan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelaChase/pseuds/AngelaChase
Summary: This is sort of a gap-filler that covers episodes 1.09 through the Gallavich parts of the end of Season 1 (with brief mentions of events in previous episodes). It's born out of my desire to know how the boys reach the level of closeness that has Ian running to Mickey's when M*nica shows up. I also think the writers missed some terrific opportunities for character development between Ian, Mickey, and Kash between the shooting and the prison visit.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56





	1. The Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic EVER. I'd love feedback! I plan on it being about 4 chapters. The fic and chapter titles are all Carl Sagan inspired.

On Saturday after a few hours of stocking shelves in the back of the Kash and Grab, Ian asked Linda about heading to the Gallagher house for his lunch break, which was unusual only in that he sometimes skipped it all together to get extra hours, and sometimes (in the past) had stayed to spend more time with Kash. His request was met with a dismissive but unbothered nod from Linda and puppy-dog eyes from Kash. Ian shook off the feeling of being  _ guilted _ for wanting to actually get a break and see his own family on his time off, and unceremoniously let the store’s door slam behind him. The rest of the Gallaghers were off that day - strangely no one else had a side job or school function to attend. They’d been making their way through Carl Sagan’s _ Cosmos _ whenever everyone could get together, and Ian loved it. At times the unevenness of their family routines got him on edge - he thought maybe he was strange because a part of him craved that traditional family shit that he’d only ever seen in sitcoms. So when they all sat down in the living room together and watched an episode, it flooded him with relief and comfort. It made him feel smart, too. One night after they’d watched two eps back-to-back, he and Lip had gotten ridiculously high on some surprisingly good weed from Kev and had just talked about the universe. He’d most likely only be able to catch the first half of today’s episode before needing to head back to work, but it was better than nothing. 

Ian had promised Linda he’d return to the store by 2pm sharp. She had an appointment at the clinic or something and Kash was driving her, so they needed him to be up front working the register. Their dynamic post-discovery...post fucking surveillance video sex tape whatever you want to call it...had actually been good, maybe better than before. If he thought too hard about it, Ian would begin to question  _ why _ Linda was so okay with what she’d discovered between her husband and their stock boy. He tried to imagine being a married adult and finding out your partner was fucking the hired help...sorry,  _ getting fucked by _ the  _ much younger _ hired help...and there were just too many factors, too many  _ buts  _ and  _ what ifs _ for him to fully inhabit Linda’s shoes. He knew he and Kash had betrayed her in the worst way, and honestly she should have been angrier. But whatever semblance of an agreement they’d all settled on, it seemed to be working. 

When he worked the register alone, Ian realized how relieved he was  _ not _ to share the space with Kash. The older man’s longing looks and belabored sighs used to make Ian quiver in anticipation - he had felt so  _ wanted _ and it had felt so exciting to be a part of something secret and all their own. Now those same noises and looks grated on him and left him feeling annoyed and helpless. Per their agreement with Linda, he  _ couldn’t  _ give Kash what he wanted, and recently he’d begun to wonder if what Kash desired was even something Ian wanted to give him. His elicit excitement had nearly turned into shudders of shame and confusion. He didn’t feel used by the older man - Ian had entered into that relationship with his eyes and his fly open - but thinking of their hurried fucks, thinking of the fervent grasps and whispered promises now caused a visceral and distinctively negative reaction. It wasn’t unlike the lurch in his stomach and cold, sweaty embarrassment he felt when he read an old diary entry or school assignment that now felt cringe-worthy (“My dad’s name is Frank. His favorite thing is beer.”). 

So working a shift with Kash was basically an exercise in trying  _ not  _ to think about fucking Kash. When faced with undeniable reminders - pained expressions, comments laden with innuendo - he’d immediately try to fill his head with images of something else...and recently,  _ someone  _ else. He’d change the subject or start a task in another part of the store. Linda had spent months leaving them with checklists of “Things to do when you think there’s nothing to do,” and for months they’d been pointedly ignored. But now Ian found himself dusting the back shelves and wiping the baseboards with newfound conviction. Anything to keep himself busy and at the other end of the too small space. And as long as they  _ had _ to stay away from each other, he was fine. The longer they had to  _ suffer _ through their Linda-imposed break, the longer he could put off facing those complicated feelings and gut wrenching mindfucks. Honestly, getting back to a quiet, empty, uncomplicated store by 2 pm (even if it meant cutting his lunch break and  _ Cosmos _ escape a little short) sounded great.

As he walked toward the Gallagher house, the wind picked up. Ian pulled his hood down on his forehead and tucked his chin as far into his chest as he could, while still watching where he was going. Chicago winters didn’t fuck around. Maybe the wind would let up before he had to head back out. He told himself he was just looking forward to the quiet store, the unhurried atmosphere of working a job on the southside on a cold winter afternoon. And to some extent, what Ian told himself was true; when the store was empty, he felt comforted by the whirring of the freezer cases, the persistent leaking of the utility sink, the occasional ringing of the bell when someone actually came in to buy something. Well, that, and when the bell ringing announced Mickey’s arrival. Ian was honestly like one of Pavlov’s fucking dogs. 

If thinking of fucking Kash had him wincing in embarrassment, the exact jingle, the specific way Mickey Milkovich shoved the Kash and Grab’s ancient door open made Ian  _ literally  _ salivate and figuratively lose his shit. He’d feel a tickle in his throat and instant pounding in his chest. He had become a master at schooling his face into carefully constructed nonchalance as he’d turn to look at the door, pretending he didn’t know who was storming through. And the physical response didn’t end there. The minute the earthy smell of frozen Chicago winter combined with the undeniable smell of  _ Mickey _ hit his nostrils, he’d again have to police his response.  _ Inhale like a normal person, you freak. Stop acting like you’re sniffing a fine wine or some shit.  _ He smiled and shook his head bashfully as he hopped up the creaking front steps of his house. What a strange, strange soap opera his life had become. 

*******

Inside, the house smelled like burnt popcorn and stale beer. It was abuzz with chatter and laughter, everyone jockeying for position on the couches and chairs and making sure they were in reaching distance of something to eat. Ian noticed that Vee had brought that strange Ethel girl - the Amish one with the kid - along for the show. She seemed surprisingly into the idea of watching something that likely went against everything she had ever been told. He nodded at Lip and went to the kitchen to grab them some drinks. Vee and Fiona were floating in between rooms and doing that thing they did - where they seemed to read each other’s minds and anticipate each other’s needs - passing out food and making sure everyone was comfortable. Just as Fiona came back into the room and switched on the screen, she and Carl got into it about something. All Ian really caught was Fiona taunting Carl with, “Billions and billions of SPERM!” Ian chuckled but didn’t engage. He wondered how many people would be able to tell he was gay just by measuring the shocking shade of pink his earlobes turned whenever anyone mentioned dicks, or balls, or heaven forbid, asses or sperm. He shook off the uncomfortable jitters and forced himself into the present: “Yeah, hurry up! I gotta get back to work,” he heard himself say, echoing Lip’s sentiment to get things started. 

When Carl Sagan’s kind, leathery face filled up the tv, Ian felt himself spacing out.. He usually clung to every word in this series - he loved learning things and it felt great to lock eyes with Lip when he could tell they really  _ got  _ something profound out of the show. But today he thought of the purple, star-studded backdrop of the  _ Cosmos  _ VHS cover. He thought of the Milky Way and beautiful, unknowable things. He wondered briefly if everyone felt the same sinking feeling he sometimes did when he thought too hard about humanity’s place in the cosmos. Fuck, he wasn’t even high and this show was getting to him. As he continued to watch, the calming, reassuring voice of the narration wasn’t so much saying words anymore as it was lulling him and letting his mind wander. Purple and mottled with white pinpricks, the sky in  _ Cosmos  _ wasn’t unlike the bruise he’d seen on Mickey’s left thigh the last time they’d been in the walk-in together. Stars to thighs in barely thirty seconds. Jesus. He was obsessed.

_ When they got to the freezer, Mickey backed up against the metal shelf, rattling the orange sodas and root beers. He raised his right eyebrow in expectation and indicated that Ian should kneel. Fuck yes, he’d do that. Ian scrambled down to the uneven walk-in floor and pulled Mickey’s jeans down with what was becoming alarming efficiency. How many times had they done this now?  _

_ Mickey was rarely clean and often sporting nicks and small cuts, but the large, shiny purple bruise spread across his upper thigh was new. Ian heard himself speak before he had time to to clamp his mouth shut.  _ “Jesus. What happened to you?”

“‘S nothing, Gallagher, get on with it. Got a thing later.”  _ Mickey wrinkled his nose and sort of swiped his hand across his face in what Ian now knew was one of his tells. Mickey was embarrassed.  _

_ The redhead shook his head slightly as if in explanation.  _ “No, Sorry. I just. I guess I usually put my hand there and I didn’t want to...I mean, it looks like it hurts like hell, man.”

_ Mickey shrugged and stared off to the right.  _ “It’s whatever. Not a pussy.”

_ Ian nodded.  _ “Yeah. Yeah okay.”  _ Mickey’s thighs were fucking gorgeous. Ian felt odd that he thought so. When he had been with Kash, he remembered thinking about his soulful eyes and smooth hair, but almost in a technical way. Kash was objectively a pretty person - anyone would probably say so; he had great skin, bone structure. But Mickey’s thighs caused in Ian the same stomach lurch and throat tickle that the doorbell brought about. After a few weeks of fucking around he was conditioned to respond to them. Fuck. He’d also realized that gripping the front of Mickey’s thighs while he was blowing him was somehow acceptable and  _ not gay _ in the way that stroking his belly or holding his hand might have been. So that had been his go-to pre-bruise: grab Mickey’s thighs and suck him down like the world was ending. Now he needed an alternate plan. _

_ He gingerly placed his left hand on Mickey’s unmarked right thigh - his usual spot - and then placed his right hand on the outside of Mickey’s left knee, avoiding the monstrous bruise. There. He puffed out a breath and scooched forward on his knees, silently asking if he could start. Mickey nodded almost imperceptibly. They’d been doing this a lot recently - communicating without really saying anything. It made Ian giddy. He ducked his chin down a bit to catch his lower lip on Mickey’s dick, quickly wrapping his mouth around an already swollen head. Mickey sighed and knocked his head back against the shelf, rattling the bottles again. _

_ Ian got to work slowly, taking Mickey down as far as he could. Mickey sighed. He started moving a little faster and swirling his tongue. He could hear Mickey’s breath catch and then felt fingers comb through his hair and pull. A firm grip on his hair was also  _ not gay _ as far as he could tell, though the minute they were done, Mickey would always let go; he never lingered. Ian sped up a bit more and engaged the muscles in his throat and neck, sucking hard. Mickey sighed again and voiced a quiet, barely there  _ “Uh-ah.”  _ Ian shuddered with desire. He loved giving head to Mickey.  _

_ Kash had been Ian’s first experience with blow jobs. He had not really liked  _ giving _ that much, but it made him feel good to make Kash feel good, so he kept doing it. He also figured he needed to keep giving them if he wanted to keep getting them. Maybe being a top meant you didn’t really like cock in your mouth any more than you liked cock in your ass...that’s what he’d assumed, anyway. But ever since he’d snuck back to Mickey’s room at the Milkovich house and kneeled hungrily for Mickey in that grimy corner surrounded by laundry and gun magazines, he’d been a dick sucking convert. _

_ Keeping his hands on Mickey’s thighs usually allowed Ian to manage his depth and prevent embarrassing choking or too much spit. He could go hard and still be in a certain amount of control. He hadn’t anticipated that having his hands at different heights would throw his balance off, but after a particularly languid slide in and out, Mickey gripped his bangs and  _ pulled.  _ Ian felt his throat start to close in the telltale signs of gagging, so he pushed back on Mickey’s legs, but started to topple to the right. To fix his balance, he slid his right hand up Mickey’s leg without thinking, and pressed his thumb squarely into the middle of the purple, mottled flesh. _

_ Mickey growled and nearly kneed him in the throat, pulling Ian’s head off of his dick.  _ “What the actual FUCK, Gallagher?”  _ Shit. Shit. This was it. Fucking up while fucking around with Mickey was something Ian told himself he wouldn’t do. He hung his head for a second, smoothed his facial expression, and looked up, expecting to see a wild, angry, and decidedly done Mickey. Instead what he saw was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Mickey’s light blue eyes were blown out with desire, nearly all black. His chapped lips were open in an O of surprise, and his eyebrows arched gracefully. He was holding his breath as if he’d been suspended in time. Ian broke the silence. _

_“Jesus, I’m SO sorry. Right on your bruise. Fuck, what and idiot.” He waited for Mickey to reply and agree, to say_ something. _Ian would have welcomed a throat punch, honestly. But_ _Mickey paused a beat too long. He closed his mouth and then opened it again, raising his eyebrows even higher. He shook his head infinitesimally; whatever he was feeling was as much a surprise to him as it was to Ian. After what seemed like a minute but couldn’t have been longer than ten seconds, Mickey shook his head with more conviction, as if to ward off a fly or refocus on the task at hand._

_ He grabbed a handful of hair directly on top of Ian’s head and pulled him forward possessively. Ian knew what that meant - keep going - so he did. His body did what he knew how to do but as he swallowed Mickey down again, his mind was going in a million different directions - Mickey seemed pissed about the hand slip and the bruise. He seemed pissed but he looked fucking wrecked with desire when he pulled Ian off. Did he - Would he - Did Mickey like how it felt? Ian’s hands were gingerly grabbing both thighs at this point. He was steadying himself but also very consciously  _ not _ doing his usually grabbing thing. He looked up as best he could while maintaining the angle of his head and mouth. Mick’s eyes were closed. His mouth was opening and closing at regular intervals - almost as if he were speaking - but Ian couldn’t hear anything. What the fuck. He could try and see what happened. Ian slid his hands up gently and pressed both thumbs carefully into Mickey’s thighs - the white, unblemished right thigh and the angry, mottled left. At the same time, he swirled his tongue around Mickey’s head and then deep throated him slowly, almost methodically. He inhaled deeply all that was Mickey, realizing that if his attempt was thwarted, this might be his final chance to be with the angry, confusing as fuck boy. The sound Mickey made was one Ian had never heard before.  _

_ As a rule they were pretty fucking quiet - the occasional “fuck” or “right there” or “harder,” was all he’d ever heard from Mickey during sex. He lived to catch Mickey’s sighs and audible exhalations, but really, that was it. But in the freezer that day, in the freezer on his knees while he was simultaneously giving Mickey pleasure  _ and  _ clearly causing him pain, Mickey  _ whined.  _ It was quiet and strangled and laden with frustration and want. Mickey whined and held Ian’s head in place. He came at the same time he inhaled rapidly, and then slowly let go of the strands of red hair he’d been clutching. Ian pulled off carefully, not wanting to spook Mickey (why did he suddenly feel like the other boy was a wounded animal?). Mickey’s head was still back against the shelf and his eyes were closed. He seemed to be holding onto that last breath, frozen in place. His hands were stilled at an awkward angle, somewhere between conjuring a spell or raising them up in defense. Ian sat back on his heels and waited.  _

_ Mickey cracked his eyes open, staring just above Ian’s head. “Fuuuuuuck.” He breathed.  _

_ Ian shrugged and smiled with the just one side of his mouth, careful not to react too much. “Yeah,” he puffed out, wondering where to look. Before his mind could reconnect with his body and make any sort of sense out of what had just happened, the door bell jangled. It was followed by an insistent pounding on the glass. “Fuck. That’s. That’s Ernie with the papers. I…” he hopped up from the floor and smoothed his shirt and apron down. He was still hard. “I’ll get that.” When his eyes connected with Mickey’s, he was met with a quick upward nod of the chin.  _

_ “Do your thing, Bag Boy.” Ian nodded and rushed to the front, lingering arousal now in check. He swiftly unlocked the door while turning the sign.  _

_ “Sorry, Ernie. I was restocking in the back.” He grabbed the tied stacks of the next day’s newspapers and helped Ernie change out yesterday’s leftover papers. Ernie was kind but particular, and insisted on stacking the papers five at a time, so it took a good ten minutes to get everything in order. As Ian reached across the counter to grab the envelope with Ernie’s weekly fee, he heard the bell jingle again and the door slam. Mickey had slipped out without a word.  _

“Hey. You watching?” Lip elbowed Ian sharply, pulling him unceremoniously out of his fucking  _ intense _ memory. Ian righted himself on the cushions and nodded. 

“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about work.”

“Betchu are,” Lip whispered. Ian rolled his eyes. He’d eventually have to explain to his brother just what work now entailed, but for today he would let it go. They quieted down again and watched in relative silence, save for the cooing and squawking from the little ones and some banter from Fiona and Steve (when he arrived) about a new microwave.

*******

When Debbie stepped through the door looking like a ghost, or like she’d just seen one, all attention in the room turned to her. Everyone’s minds jumped to the most likely culprit, so Fiona and Lip chimed in with admonishments of Frank.

“You just gotta ignore him when he’s like that, Debs,” Ian added, and boy did he know. He often felt sad for Debs and Carl because they still held onto that  _ hope _ that Frank was a good person under it all, that some shred of his soul knew what it meant to be a father or a provider or some shit. Ian felt secure in his cynicism. It was safer. The older Gallaghers were practiced in the art of building up walls, defenses against disappointment.

But apparently none of them had built those defenses up high enough. When Debbie finally made it clear that it was  _ their mother  _ who had made her face go slack and white, that it was  _ Monica _ who was currently at Sheila’s, suddenly back from who knows where and bringing who knows what kind of hurricane along with her, the air in the room grew thick. Ian felt pressure in his head like his ears needed to pop; everything was too loud and too quiet at the same time. Carl Sagan’s voice still droned on pleasantly in the background - “... _ we are made of star stuff…” _ \- but the Gallagher kids and their unsuspecting guests were sent into a flurry of movement and panic. Fiona tried to calm Debbie, which resulted in a confusing back and forth about the Harris house next door. Liam and the Amish baby (Jonas? Jonah?) both seemed to sense the stress level. Their babbling became shrill and needy. 

Ian couldn’t take it. The feeling of being uncentered, raw, unprotected overwhelmed him. “I’m goin’ to work,” he mumbled, standing and heading out the door without pause. He could hear Fiona call after him, but he wasn’t going to turn around. He couldn’t. He stumbled quickly down the steps, pulling on his jacket. The Kash and Grab was to the right, under the El and over a few blocks. He was supposed to be there now for Linda. The Milkovich house was to the left and down five streets. Ian turned left.

  
  



	2. Blues for a Red Planet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian runs to Mickey's, then heads to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken so long to post an update! January was an actual hellscape -- family deaths, totaled cars, a government insurrection, new firewalls at work that prevent me from posting during the week...
> 
> But seriously, I was blindsided! I promise to update more frequently and regularly. Chapter3 is almost done.

  
  


Ian ran down the sidewalk in a flurry, coat open and flapping, shoes slapping the cold, hard concrete. A stubborn lump was forming somewhere between his throat and his chest. He couldn’t exactly cry, but the harsh, acrid air made his lungs ache and sting and his eyes water. He heard Debbie’s words and Steve’s response on repeat in his head - words he honestly hadn’t heard in the moment, couldn’t process. Now he couldn’t  _ stop  _ hearing them.  _ Monica. Who’s Monica? _ They grew louder and more insistent as he ran.  _ Monica. Who’s Monica? _ Hot cotton filled his ears. The lump was rising in his throat, his chest tight and pounding. He shook his head and tried to refocus on something, anything else. On any other day, under any other circumstances, he would have fought what came next. He  _ knew _ Mickey would hate him for it, would cringe in disgust if he heard the chanting in his head:  _ MickeyMickeyMickey. _ Debbie and Steve’s voices subsided. The new refrain helped guide him.

He turned down Turnbull, nearly slipping on a patch of black ice but righting himself at the last moment. As he approached the Milkovich house, the El passed overhead and the voice in his head grew quieter, but stayed steady.  _ MickeyMickeyMickey _ . Ian grabbed the rounded metal knob at the top of their chain link gate and used the centrifugal force to haul himself up the grey wooden steps, worn from ice and mildew. 

*******

Mandy was rarely at her house on the weekends. If Terry was out of jail and not on a drug run, the weekends were a time of intense male Milkovich debauchery. When he’d asked why she always stayed at a friend’s house or fucked around at the mall for hours at a time, she described her father and brothers’ interests to Ian as “drugs, sluts, and guns...and not necessarily in that order.” As such, Ian also avoided the Milkovich house between Saturday morning and Sunday night unless he had an explicit invitation and an  _ all clear  _ from Mandy. He’d seen the evidence of their all-weekend benders that day when he’d come for the gun. While attacking a sleeping Mickey now sounded like the beginning of a truly satisfying and strangely realistic fantasy, Ian understood that being walked in on again by Terry Milkovich was a death sentence. Their only saving grace that day -  _ the day of the gun _ \- had been Terry’s still-drunk-and-not-yet-fully awake state. Well, that, and perhaps his euphoric post-prison optimism that had somehow prevented him from realizing what Ian and Mickey had just done. There was no guarantee he’d be so out of it or so willfully ignorant next time. 

In addition to a keen sense of self preservation, Ian stayed away from the Milkovich house when Mandy wasn’t there because he could tell that that was the  _ arrangement _ . He and Mickey had never discussed as much out loud, but it was a pattern they’d established over the last few weeks. Ian could come over and do English or Social Studies homework with Mandy. He could play their video games, eat snacks she made, and even get away with staying pretty late, as long as Terry wasn’t in one of his moods. He could also regularly get away with prolonged trips to the bathroom or out back to smoke, trips that invariably involved blowing Mickey in the dark corner of his room or unceremoniously bending him over the bathroom sink for a quick fuck, all as long as his pretense for being at the house in the first place was to visit his “girlfriend.” Mandy was usually preoccupied enough with whichever junior guy she was currently texting that she was none the wiser. The three of them sometimes shared the space - crowding on the couch playing games or hunching over the small kitchen table inhaling munchies - but their unspoken rule was that it had to seem incidental. Ian and Mickey could not, would not, indicate verbally or otherwise that they  _ wanted _ to be in the same space, that they  _ tried _ to spend time together. One more than one occasion, Ian had spent time with Mickey and Mandy  _ without _ sneaking in a covert tryst. The sum total of his physical contact with Mickey during those visits amounted to knocking the outsides of their knees together aggressively during a racing game or barely touching each other’s fingers when they shared a cigarette. The latter was  _ pretty gay _ , though, so Mickey only ever acquiesced when he was high or drunk already. 

It had nearly knocked Ian over two weeks ago when he had gotten up off the Milkovich couch to head to work, leaving Mickey and Mandy to handle  _ Call of Duty _ on their own, when Mickey had sneered, “Is there any day you  _ don’t  _ work at fucking Towel Head’s store?” He’d immediately turned back to the screen and bitten his lower lip in concentration.

Mandy assumed her girlfriendly duties as if on command: “What the fuck do you care, Mickey?” She elbowed her brother hard in the ribs for good measure. “Ian’s a fucking productive member of society. Earns money and shit.  _ Legally _ . Lay off.”

Ian didn’t know exactly how to respond, but he thought he’d kept his cool. “Nah, not  _ every _ fuckin’ day. But I do work every Saturday all day long and Tuesday through Thursday at night. It sucks. But it’s money.” The Milkoviches both went back to staring at the screen and twitching their bodies at regular intervals in  _ angry gamer _ mode. Ian might have left it at that, but he saw Mickey’s eyebrows elevate just a  _ bit _ beyond their usual altitude. He sucked in a quick breath. “Yeah, Saturday’s pretty boring. I’m usually alone all afternoon, so…It’s whatever. Wednesdays I usually close.” When he was once again rewarded, this time with a slight chin dip from Mickey, Ian was barely able to contain a fucking ridiculous smile. Not a week later, he’d found himself on his knees in the walk-in on a Wednesday, right before closing, worshipping the bruised, mottled purple skin of a beautiful boy.

  
  


*******

As Ian peered desperately into the warped, bottle green spraylite glass of the front door and pounded his fist on the wood, his conscious mind caught up with him. T _ he Milkovich house was off-limits unless Mandy was home. Mandy was never home on the weekends. It was the middle of the day on a fucking Saturday. _ Just as he considered drawing back his fist and turning around, the door was yanked open, revealing an ashen-faced, sweater-clad Mickey, lit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. His dishwater blue eyes looked paler and somehow  _ younger _ than usual. Even in his nearly delirious state, Ian could tell Mickey was caught off-guard by his arrival.

“What the fuck?” Mickey demanded, his voice a little loud, a little performative.

Ian’s words came out before he could stop them. “I need to see you.” He cursed himself silently.  _ Need _ was not something he and Mickey discussed. Their whole tenuous arrangement - whatever it was - could not be framed by need - could barely be framed by want, even.

“ _ Not _ a good time.” Mickey spat out with less drama and panache. His eyes cut quickly to the side, speaking volumes about the complicated dynamics behind him. From somewhere in the bowels of the house, Ian heard Terry yelling about laundry and pull-up bars.

“I-I-I didn’t know where else to go.” Jesus Christ. Did he have  _ no  _ filter? Ian started to shuffle his feet. This had been a mistake. He hated himself for the desperation his body and face were clearly conveying. 

Mickey removed his cigarette. A flicker passed across his brow, and as it passed, his face seemed to smooth over. His gaze settled directly on Ian, then somewhere near the buttons of his henley, then up at him again. He touched his lip and spoke quietly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I thought you were workin’ today?”

The mention of work and his memorized schedule rattled Ian at the same time it warmed his cheeks. “Uh, Linda’s gonna have my ass. I’m supposed to be there now.” He shifted his weight back and forth, felt his ears start to burn from the cold -- or from embarrassment -- or both. 

Mickey’s response was understated and quick. “I’ll meet you there in twenty.” His bright eyes darted back and forth, then briefly settled on Ian’s. A part of Ian wanted to ask questions, to clarify what sort of arrangement they’d just made, and he turned back once or twice as he started down the steps. But ultimately,  _ I’ll meet you there in twenty _ was enough of a directive for his addled brain. He knew what to do next. Go to work. Relieve Linda. Wait for Mickey. 

*******

Linda was going to be late to her clinic visit. She was going to be late and she’d given him  _ explicit _ instructions to be back by 2 pm, and she’d  _ known _ as she was letting him go home for lunch that it was a mistake. She also wanted to remind him that he was on  _ thin ice _ and he  _ knew why _ . 

Ian took in Linda’s ire and lecture with barely a mumble. He dipped his chin and did his best to look remorseful.  _ Yes _ he’d cover for the rest of the day.  _ No  _ he wouldn’t ask to go home for his lunch breaks again.  _ Yes.  _ Inventory in the back when it’s slow.  _ Got it. _

Kash stood dutifully beside Linda as she railed on Ian, his hangdog expression perfected. He glanced up at Ian occasionally through his dark, thick lashes. Weeks ago those lashes and brown eyes had been so alluring, but today Ian found them irritating. The lump in his throat and chest from earlier felt like it was pushing up, threatening to come out of his mouth in a shout or a cry. He needed Kash and Linda to leave and get to Linda’s stupid appointment. As they finally headed out, Kash walked behind Ian and tugged gently and surreptitiously at the back of his coat - a little private goodbye.  _ Don’t fucking touch me _ , he wanted to scream. He knew Kash was trying to be sweet and make a connection - maybe he could even see the tears threatening to form in Ian’s eyes and the quivering lower lip - but he didn’t want anything from the older man. He pretended he didn’t feel the tug.

When the door fell closed behind them, Ian let out a deep, shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He looked around the store, momentarily lost and listless. He thought about getting set up behind the register or heading to the back to start inventory, but did neither. The warmth of the overactive heat blasting at the front of the store made wearing his coat almost unbearable, but he made no move to take it off. Instead he stood in place, staring at a spot on the floor, as beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and a cool, irritating trickle of perspiration started at the nape of his neck and ran slowly down the length of his back. 

The events of the morning - leaving work for lunch,  _ Cosmos _ , Debbie showing up,  _ Monica. Who’s Monica? _ \- seemed like they’d happened hours ago. Even seeing Mickey, pale eyed and terrified, but also warm and soft for a split second -- barely felt real. For the first time Ian wondered what was happening back at home. Debbie had mentioned Sheila’s - Monica was at  _ Sheila’s _ ? What a complete shit show. And what on earth had she meant by Fiona and Steve living in the house next door? His questions brought more questions and did nothing to quiet his mind or tell him what to do next. Monica was back. Monica was  _ here _ \- in town, in Chicago, blocks away from home, and nothing made sense. 

Being a gay kid on the Southside had always been a lesson in learning how to follow the rules - figure out what you can and can’t get away with. ROTC was a program that required discipline and order - Ian had figured out that set of expectations quickly and excelled. Even being with Mickey (in whatever capacity they were even sort of a thing), though it alternated between terrifying and frustrating, came with a set of rules that he’d swiftly navigated. But Monica returning? He had no idea how to reconcile to ache in his chest with the bile in his throat. Her name brought tears to his eyes  _ and _ curled his fists in anger. Ian wasn’t sure if seeing his mother for the first time in ages would have him letting down his defenses or building bigger walls. 

And so he had run. While his siblings were getting ready to face Hurricane Monica -- maybe Frank  _ and  _ Monica -- in a toxic windfall of bad parenting, Ian had run straight into the center of another, albeit different, storm of confusion.

What was he hoping? Certainly not that Mickey would comfort him, hug him, hold him. He and Mickey were nothing like that -- were barely even friends. Besides the occasional tug on his hair during a blow job or awkward fumbling while removing layers of winter clothes, they’d rarely touched each other with care. Up until now, he had considered gaming on the couch with adjacent thighs and jousting elbows quite the feat of physical intimacy. Shit, based on their last time in the freezer, it seemed like maybe Mickey liked  _ pain _ , not sweetness and comfort. And now he’d gone and told Mickey he  _ needed to see him _ , that he had  _ nowhere else to go. _ Lip was right; Ian had absolutely no chill. Now any chance he had of keeping his vulnerability in check around Mickey was gone. Mickey would show up, see Ian for the simpering fool he was, and leave -- or even worse -- laugh.

*******

Eventually the itchy, cooling sweat was too much. Ian tossed his jacket behind the register and headed to the back. He grabbed one of the _Jarritos_ strawberry sodas from the nearest shelf and propped himself up on some unpacked boxes of Old Style. For the next 10 minutes or so, he alternated sips of the too-sweet soda and long, belabored puffs of his last cigarette. He didn’t cry, exactly, but he felt his body shudder with each exhale. He was shivering, now, too, from the abrupt temperature change. 

When he was halfway done with the cigarette and strawberry soda, he heard the bell on the door ring and the door close with a thud and then another residual tinkle of the bell as if someone were fiddling with the door. Ian knew it was Mickey -- was glad it was Mickey - but couldn’t bring himself to move, much less leave the freezer. 

“‘Ey. You here? Sorry I’m late.”


	3. The Backbone of The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey arrives and an interesting suggestion is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with chapter three! Parts of this likely need editing; I apologize!
> 
> This chapter has a lot of sex - be warned! There are some light BDSM overtones that only sort of explored. I honestly see it less as a fully formed kink for either of them and more as a way of learning to be more intimate with each other.

A few years ago there’d been an old brown mutt that lived under a dumpster overhang on the service road behind the Gallagher house. He’d eventually moved on, most likely to avoid Carl’s incessant badgering and nearly sociopathic desire to test his limits. They’d randomly named him Hank (it was Debbie’s idea), then resorted to calling him Hank the Tank, Hanky-Pank, and various other versions of that name during his tenure as the local stray. Hank would eat  _ literally _ everything and could sleep through  _ almost  _ anything (except Carl’s shenanigans - hence the eventual relocation). Ian remembered a day when he and Lip had spent nearly an hour whistling and whispering Hank’s name at different volumes and intervals and cracking the fuck up each time his back muscles would twitch and his ears would perk up. It was like part of Hank’s body knew to listen, but not his conscious brain. He’d remain contentedly snoring and farting while his back muscles and ears would jump and dance at attention. 

When Ian heard the distinctive crash of the door of the Kash and Grab and ring of the bell, his Pavlovian response to Mickey’s arrival kicked in, but it was different than usual. Typically he’d feel the nervous throat tickle and the quickening pulse and he would immediately go about the business of affecting nonchalance while smoothing his shirt and checking his breath. Today he stayed still, staring at the wall, puffing on his cigarette. Like Hank’s twitchy ears and scrunched up fur, parts of his body responded to Mickey’s presence while the rest of him remained immobile. His heart rate picked up and he sensed his salivary glands twinge. He slowly brought the cigarette from his lips and exhaled, then returned it to its rightful place. 

‘’Ey. You here? Sorry I’m late.” 

  
*******

He could hear Mickey moving through the store but didn’t respond. He  _ thought _ about answering, but couldn’t figure out how to engage his vocal chords.

“Ia- Gallagher? You in here?” Mickey opened the door to the walk in but waited a beat before entering. He stuck his head in once, as if to case the joint, and then came all the way in, stepping in front of Ian. Neither spoke for a second, and then as if to fill up the silence, Mickey offered, “My dad was in fuckin’  _ rare _ form today, man. You’re lucky I answered the door.”

Ian nodded slowly and changed out the cigarette for the soda. The strange taste of burning strawberries washed down his throat. “Wasn’t really thinking...I’m...I’m sorry I showed up like that.” 

Mickey ignored the apology and touched his face absent-mindedly. “So what’s up? You, you need help hidin’ a body? Your fuckin’ brother - Mouth? Lip? - he do some stupid shit you gotta  _ un _ do now?” His bright eyes flashed as he spoke, clearly seeing if he could get away with teasing Ian.

“No. Nothin’ like that. I - fuck, I feel like a fucking idiot. I just…She’s…” Ian gave up trying to form words again. He was so, so monumentally stupid for going to Mickey’s. For thinking it would somehow help.

“She who? Somebody hurt one of your sisters? Fiona? The little one with the red hair? Fuck. If someone hurts Mandy they’re fuckin’ dead. I get it.” Hearing Mickey use his sister’s name for the first time was odd. He had a habit of making up nicknames for everyone, or simply referring to Ian’s family as a monolith (“you Gallaghers” or “fuckin’ Gallaghers”).

“Not my sisters. They’re fine. I mean, not really. Fiona’s a wreck and maybe moving? And Debbie’s clearly upset about all of it, but no. It’s…” he was losing steam. Every moment he kept talking - every new word he spoke was digging him deeper. And yet he couldn’t make himself shut up. “It’s Monica. It’s my mom. She’s uh, she’s back? Just like showed up today.”

Ian waited for the fallout. He was slowly feeling like he could move and think again. He was still dazed, and still teetering between about six different barely identifiable emotions, but at least now he was forming words and able to perform basic functions. The bad thing about the world coming into focus was that he would have a front row seat to the ass kicking (or public shaming?) he was about to get from Mickey. They didn’t  _ do _ this. They didn’t talk about absent moms and asshole dads except in passing. Ian wasn’t sure he’d ever said Monica’s name to Mickey before. 

Mickey’s pale blue eyes stared at him unwaveringly. His eyebrows peaked. “It’s not good news? Her bein’ back?”

“Not really. I don’t even know.” He looked down and looked up again, finding Mickey’s face. “It’s like. It’s like she’s gonna come back and be how she is. Be all into everything and like a Mom. Make pancakes. Go to my ROTC stuff. And if she’s back, Frank’ll start showing up. The’ll start fucking and fighting all over the house; it’ll be crazy. I’ll start  _ wanting _ her as a mom again. And then she’ll leave.”

“Got it. That’s...that’s rough, man.” Mickey looked thoughtful and clearly a little lost on what to say. He didn’t seem to be angry, though, or think Ian was a wuss for being upset. “Know why she’s back?” 

Ian sucked on the cigarette and let out a puff of smoke, gesticulating wildly with his free hand. “No fucking clue. I’m sure it’s not for us. It’s like. I wish she’d just leave and  _ not _ come back, you know? It’s the coming and going that fucks us up. Debbie and Carl and now Liam, especially.” 

Mickey reached out and plucked the cigarette from his right hand. He fixated on the ground as he inhaled. “You like, sad, or whatever?”

Ian stopped moving and breathed slowly -- in, and then out. He and Mickey were  _ talking _ . Mickey wasn’t giving him shit for talking about his family -- he didn’t even appear grumpy. Ian grabbed the cigarette back and shivered, the reality of standing in the freezer without a coat on abruptly hitting him. 

“I think I was at first.” 

“And now?”

“Now? Now I’m fucking angry. It’s just not fair, you know? I get it. Life is shit and then you die. Fine. But this is just making everything worse.” 

“Amen to  _ that _ , man. Life is shit then you die.”

“Yeah. And it’s not  _ okay. _ It’s not  _ fine _ . Not for Debbie and Carl and Liam, and I just…” Ian sensed tears forming, threatening to spill down his face. Talking had felt good at first, but now he was nearly vibrating with rage -- fists balled and jaw clenched. “I want to fucking  _ break  _ something or  _ hurt  _ someone.  _ Fuck _ .” 

Mickey said nothing, but hummed audibly in a gesture of understanding. Ian could feel the hot trail of a tear down his right cheek. They stood a few feet apart from one another, unmoving. The buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead and the whirring of the freezer cases overtook the silence as neither one of them made a move to speak. After a year or thirty seconds -- it could have just as easily been either - Mickey lifted his gaze from the spot on the floor he’d been intently studying. His chin remained tucked a bit, which meant that to meet Ian’s gaze, he had to look up through his lashes. For a brief moment Mickey’s expression seemed shy and hesitant, but then he bit his bottom lip and squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. He reached out and gently dislodged Ian’s cigarette from between his still curled fingers. Mickey brought the cigarette to his own lips and sucked  _ in _ slowly, methodically. When he was done, he flicked the butt to the floor and expertly ground it with his right foot, without blinking. 

“You can, if you want.”

“Can what?” Ian tried frantically to locate the words he’d last spoken, but his mind was foggy and buzzing again.

“Said you were fuckin’ angry. Said you wanted to hurt something. Someone.” 

“What the fuck, Mickey? I hate Monica but I’m not gonna shank her.” Ian heard himself force out a weird laugh at the suggestion. 

“Nah, man. Not what I meant,” Mickey answered, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows like Ian was  _ slow  _ or something. And slow he was. He had  _ no _ idea what they were talking about now. 

“Jesus Christ, what, Mickey? Am I stupid now?” He spat out, stepping into the other boy’s space, jutting out his chest and his chin. Mickey’s eyes grew wide and dark but he didn’t give any ground. 

He shook his head slowly. “Not stupid, Gallagher. Maybe just...“ Mickey reached around him and grabbed the  _ Jarritos  _ bottle, downing the rest of the bright red drink. He put the bottle back, empty, and stared at Ian, his strawberry pink tongue tracing the corner of his mouth.

“ _ What? _ ”

Ian watched in awe as Mickey started to unbuckle his own pants and back up toward the freezer shelf stocked with beer and sodas. “‘Member last time? You can do that again. ‘S’fine.” 

Last time? The bruise? Mickey’s blue eyes black with fear and desire? He definitely wanted to see  _ that  _ again, but -- “I don’t want to hurt  _ you _ , dumbass. I want to --”

“What?” Mickey challenged. He bumped up against the silver shelf and let his jeans fall to his ankles. Idly, Ian realized that Mickey Milkovich was the only person he knew who could be caught standing in a walk-in freezer, mostly naked from the waist down, and somehow still look like a badass. His glance fell to Mickey’s thighs. The big, purple bruise was still there, but it had faded in the last few days and was now tinged with green. On his other leg, Ian noticed some new, angry pink scratches around his knee. Mickey braced himself against the shelf, rattling the six-packs of  _ Corona _ . “Come on, Gallagher. You’re a mess. Let off some steam.”

_ A mess _ ? Fury began building in his chest. He glowered at Mickey, only to be met with a shaky smirk. Mickey had  _ wanted  _ to get a reaction. Ian lunged forward and fell to his knees, ignoring the hard, uneven ground. He looked at Mickey’s pale naked thighs, partially covered by his enormous jacket, and repeated his last words, changing the emphasis. He wanted to sound tough, but instead he almost whined, “I don’t wanna  _ hurt _ you, Mickey, I wanna…” he swallowed the rest of the sentence, distracted by a pattern of goosebumps spreading across milky skin. The purplish green bruise looked even more like a star-stung sky than last time.  _ The cosmos is within us _ . 

He ran his hands gently across the bruised and scratched skin and watched more tiny puckered bumps form. Mickey let out a shuddering breath. Ian ran his hands up Mickey’s legs and under his coat, avoiding his crotch and instead circling around his hip bones and trailing his fingers down his ass and ending by clutching the back of each thigh. He’d never been this gentle before, this slow. Ian inched forward on his knees. He could hear Mickey’s continued labored breaths and guessed he was probably hard under his coat -- a garment Ian was becoming increasingly  _ done _ with. His hands repeated their path under the coat, this time teasing just a  _ bit _ closer to the center. He detected the light scratch of pubic hair across the back of his hands as he turned his palms around, this time running the  _ backs _ of his fingers up and down Mickey’s ass and settling on his thighs. 

He looked up to find Mickey staring down at him, mouth agape. Ian sniffed, clearing the almost-crying congestion from his throat and nose and made a decision. “Take off your fucking coat.” His voice was gruff and barely recognizable, closer to the tone he’d tried for earlier.

Mickey nodded once and scrambled to get out of the long, ill-fitting garment. It would have been helpful for Ian to move, but if anything, he held his ground, clutching Mickey’s thighs tighter than necessary, digging his nails in just a little. Mickey wrestled the coat off and made a feeble attempt to fling it without moving out of Ian’s hands. Ian sighed in frustration and let go just long enough to toss the coat against the back shelves. He heard a  _ whap _ and then the clanging of glass on glass. They winced in unison and then sighed in relief when none of the bottles of cheap wine fell to the ground. 

Ian turned back to Mickey and grabbed him again. He could see a lot more now -- Mickey’s mussed dark hair, his hard, pink dick, and the soft, almost translucently white skin of his hips and groin. He circled his fingers once more down the backs of his thighs and up, across his bruise and scabs. Instead of looping around to grab his ass this time, Ian pressed his thumbs into the front of Mickey’s hip bones, bearing down. Mickey’s breath hitched. Ian slid his hands down lower and pressed again, this time right under the crease between Mickey’s torso and legs. He stared in awe at the tiny networks of blue veins just below the surface and once again was reminded of fucking Carl Sagan.  _ The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. _

*******

Ian nosed Mickey’s dick, working it into his mouth by maneuvering his head at an awkward angle. It was something that might have been silly or weird on any other day, but he didn’t want to sever the connection between his hands and Mickey’s skin. He sucked in his cheeks to create friction and momentum, realizing he still could barely breathe through his congestion from earlier. It didn’t matter, though. He dove in with gusto -- tonguing and sucking and sputtering as he went. Ian could hear Mickey’s nearly silent grunts -- the typical extent of his audible arousal -- and set about seeing what he could do to draw more out of him. 

He alternated between leisurely swallowing Mickey down and slowly, painfully drawing back, and the switching it up with more artful, almost playful staccato sucking. All the while, his hands clamped down harder and harder on Mickey’s thighs. He slid them higher and lower, sometimes ghosting over the bruises and scratches without stopping, other times pressing in with his thumbs. Mickey’s barely there  _ ahs _ grew louder and closer together, the longer Ian worked.

Ian felt the uneven freezer floor under the thin fabric of his jeans. He was hot and sweating again -- the same telltale trickle was making its way down his back. His face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat and he was sure his nose was running, though he was also likely drooling at this point, so it was hard to tell. Nevertheless, crouching on the floor of the freezer and coaxing pleasure sighs out of Mickey -- even as he objectively  _ hurt  _ him -- had Ian more grounded in his own body and  _ steadier _ than he’d been in days. 

They usually fucked and fooled around in a hurry - it was the Southside  _ and _ the middle of winter, after all -- but today, Ian took his time. Every time he sensed Mickey shift his weight or tense his frame, he would slow down, change up his rhythm, and  _ tease _ . Mickey tried several times to guide him -- grabbing Ian’s bangs or cupping the back of his head. Each time he tried, Ian would take Mickey’s hand and place it resolutely back against the shelf, all without looking up or disengaging his mouth. Every time he did it, he was sure Mickey would curse him out or knee him in the throat - Ian had  _ never _ taken this much control -- but instead Mickey swallowed a strange whine and let himself be manhandled. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. Mickey’s noises were driving him crazy; they reverberated deep in his gut, creating an aching  _ need _ to  _ get off _ and something else entirely that he couldn’t begin to explain. He doubled down on his efforts, abandoning the teasing now in an ardent desire to  _ demand _ an orgasm out of the other boy. Ian hummed and sucked with his cheeks, tongue, and throat, and  _ squeezed  _ and  _ pinched _ and  _ scratched _ with his hands. Grunts and groans and breathing grew louder, then suddenly Mickey stopped making noise -- he was holding his breath -- and Ian imagined, though he couldn’t see, the tension take hold of his face. He tightened his grip on Mickey’s hips and dug in his nails. In a matter of seconds, he tasted Mickey’s release. 

Ian softened his grip and relaxed his hands, resting the pads of his fingers gingerly on the flesh he’d been pressing only moments ago. He sat back on his heels and swallowed, biting his lip, suddenly afraid to look up. The ache in his gut was lower, now, and he realized he was painfully hard. Hard and horny, and apparently a fucking  _ asshole _ who got off on hurting someone else to make himself feel better. Fuck.

“ _ Damn _ , Gallagher.” Mickey’s voice was scratchy and he sounded a little like he did after smoking a joint. Ian peered up to see his head thrown back against the shelf and a blissed out expression spreading over his face, much like the last time they’d been like this. Only this time, Ernie didn’t knock to deliver the papers.

“Are you -- ? Was that --?” Ian struggled to find the words. He needed to know if Mickey was okay. 

Mickey lowered his eyes to Ian’s and sighed. His chin quivered infinitesimally. “Are you gonna fuck me?” 

_ They didn’t do this.  _ Their arrangement - the same one that had Ian staying away from the Milkovich house on the weekends and only ever expressing interest in Mickey’s  _ sister’s _ comings and goings - was one of a roughly even exchange of orgasms. A blowjob for a handjob, a quick fuck that lasted  _ just  _ long enought for each of them to come (Ian always trying desperately to hold off and finish last so he could be sure Mickey was happy with said arrangement), and so on. Sure, drunk fathers and demanding bosses and needy siblings occasionally cockblocked one of them before the full exchange was made, but Ian was fairly certain that these were the rules. For that matter, Ian had  _ never  _ fucked someone after they’d already come. With Roger, he hadn’t been given the opportunity, and with Kash? Kash had given him the impression that it was  _ too much _ to ask. 

“But you already…” Ian motioned vaguely in the direction of Mickey’s nakedness.

“Wanna come, don’t you?”

“‘Course I do, but --”

“Take your shirt off and get on me.” Ian remembered that first time in Mickey’s room -- the day of the gun -- when they helped each other out of their clothes and wrestled on the bed, fighting for dominance. Today there was none of the frantic hustle. Mickey repeated himself calmly, sounding completely spent. “Your shirt?” 

Ian stood up and reached behind his head, pulling off his light blue henley and tossing it in the direction of the discarded coat and the too sweet wine. He stepped toward Mickey and tried to spin him around to face the shelf, but the older boy’s pants, still pooled at his ankles, tangled and caused him to topple. Ian scooped his arms around Mickey’s middle to prevent him from falling and realized that he was holding dead weight. He heaved and oriented them both toward the shelf, his nipples and ribs registering the gentle scratch of Mickey’s coarse gray sweater. Ian rested momentarily, curved around Mickey’s back, nose pressed to his neck. He smelled wet wool, melting snow, smoke, and the sour sweetness of panting breaths. Ian leaned in a bit more and let his nose and lips press the patch of exposed neck in front of him. 

“You okay?” he heard himself whisper. Mickey didn’t speak, but steadied himself on the shelf, head lolling back and resting briefly on Ian’s shoulder. The moment passed quickly, though, and soon Mickey was assuming his usual position -- bent slightly at the waist and arms and head resting on the shelf.

Ian shook himself free from his reverie and tried to figure out how to proceed. He needed to prep Mickey -- didn’t he? They weren't crazy about foreplay, but he always did something to ease his way in. Once or twice Mickey had handled that himself ahead of time (tragically  _ not _ in Ian’s presence,  _ goddammit _ ), but that wasn’t the case today. On the other hand, he knew from his own experience that being touched  _ anywhere _ post-orgasm was a lot, and he could only imagine that being fingered was maybe too much. He reached down and palmed Mickey’s ass with one hand experimentally, pulling and spreading. He heard the smallest  _ uh-ah _ . Ok. 

His other arm was still encircling Mickey’s chest, so he dipped his body and bit and slithered free. He used both palms to cup and spread Mickey’s cheeks gently, listening to his breath hitch and catch. He spit unceremoniously onto his fingers and began cautiously prodding the other boy’s entrance. Mickey twitched violently. 

“Just -- Just do it -- “

“What? No, I need to --”

“I can take it.” Mickey answered, with the same unwavering tone he’d used when he’d told Ian to fuck him moments ago. 

Ian huffed a sigh of aggravated arousal. He wanted to be inside Mickey so badly,  _ needed _ to take him apart, and was apparently being invited to do so. And yet everything happening today flew in the face of what he knew to be the  _ right _ way to do things. He wanted to be good at this - he prided himself on knowing what to do and how to satisfy someone -- and Mickey was changing it up on him.  _ But Mickey wanted this. _ His next sigh was closer to a growl.

Ian unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down just enough. He grabbed Mickey’s left hip with one hand and palmed himself with the other. He swallowed repeatedly with his mouth closed  _ trying _ to create enough spit to make a difference. Eventually, he spit into his hand and coated his dick as thoroughly as he could. He lined himself up and pushed cautiously into Mickey. 

Ian was expecting extra resistance -- physical or otherwise -- but was met with hardly any. Mickey was tight and obviously not lubed the way he should have been, but Ian bottomed out without trouble. He stilled, fighting the overwhelming urge to go as hard and as fast as he could, and waited for his partner to adjust. He watched Mickey unfold his arms and slide his tattooed hands out along the metal shelf, bracing himself. He thought he heard a whispered ‘ _ kay. Come on _ , but couldn’t be certain. 

He pulled out slowly, experiencing both a burn and a delicious, crackling and thrumming friction. He sat on his palm and lubed himself again. When he slid in the next time, Mickey’s response was immediate. 

“Uuuuungh.  _ Fuck _ .” His head hung and his hands gripped the shelf harder. Ian began to move in earnest now, gaining momentum. He clutched Mickey’s hip bones and squeezed as he pulled and pushed, reinforcing the rhythm of his own hips. After a few minutes, he ran his hands up Mickey’s chest, under his scratchy sweater. Ian used the leverage he had from his new hand position and drew Mickey back into his chest. He held him tight and fucked up into him with small, deep thrusts. He heard quiet, barely voiced babbling --  _ yeah yeah  _ and  _ oh my god _ and  _ fuck, fuck _ \-- all of which only spurred him on. 

Usually they hooked up partially clothed -- save the day of the gun when they’d brazenly stripped each other only a room away from a sleeping Terry -- again, Southside, the winter; safety and convenience were paramount. As such, Ian had seen Mickey’s chest only a handful of times. Just like his legs and hands, Mickey’s chest was marred with cuts and scratches, and sometimes a larger, ominous bruise. Once or twice Ian had tried to push up or remove a shirt only to be pushed away and told to  _ stop being so gay _ . But today all bets were off. Ian slowed his thrusts and adjusted his center of balance. He slid his hands up and down the soft ridges of Mickey’s ribs as he worked his way in and out. He ghosted his hands over Mickey’s pecs which were not quite as pronounced as his own, but still broad and thick. Mickey’s nipples were already pebbled by the cold of the walk-in. They grew into hard little knots as Ian circled them with the flats of his palms. 

He’d gotten Mickey hard dozens of times at this point, made him come with his mouth, his dick, his hand. But somehow his hard nipples and full body shivers -- the pinching and scratching and pressing from before -- seemed more intense, more intimate. This waffling between gentle, exploratory touching and  _ teasing  _ and  _ pain _ was exciting, uncharted territory. Maybe? What if? 

Ian cupped his right hand and pinched Mickey’s nipple  _ hard _ , eliciting a distressed, hoarse whine. Mickey lurched forward, steadying himself by grabbing the vertical post of the utility shelf with his left hand. The spidery blue  _ U-UP  _ on his fingers appeared and disappeared from Ian’s view as they continued to rock back and forth together, the momentum building again. 

Ian was  _ almost _ there. He circled Mickey’s hard nipple with the pad of his thumb and forefinger several times, listening to his harsh breaths. He then  _ pinched _ one more time for good measure, drawing out another desperate mewl, and reluctantly pulled his hand out of the sweater. He had a sudden urge to  _ engulf _ Mickey completely. He heard himself say, “I gotcha,” as he reached over Mickey’s right shoulder, touching his cold cheek and sweaty neck before settling his right hand somewhere over the vicinity of the flesh he’d just terrorized, gripping the gray wool. He fixed his gaze once again on the vulnerable, chapped hand and the rotating  _ U-UP  _ on the metal post. Cautiously, Ian reached out and his long, cold fingers and wrapped them around Mickey’s smaller ones. 

When Ian had left the Gallagher house running -- probably an hour or more ago now - he’d been sick with panic and overwhelmed by the sensation of hot cotton in his ears and bile in his throat. He’d had to fight to stop repeating words in his head.  _ Monica? Who’s Monica? _ As he’d approached Mickey’s without consciously choosing to run there, he’d replaced the tangle of words and feelings with a simpler, calming mantra. All that had transpired since -- meeting the pale blue stare at the doorway --  _ I’ll meet you there is twenty _ \--  _ You can, if you want to  _ \-- the curl of Mickey’s fingers under his -- all of this culminated in a new kind of trance;  _ our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us -- there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries. _

As his pleasure enveloped him and his senses were overrun with the  _ knowledge  _ of Mickey and the physical reality of Mickey in his arms, his ears again began to close up and his conscious mind went blank. He could hear nothing but their synchronized sighs, feel nothing but a hand under his and the places where they were connected. Ian held on tighter and prepared to let go.

The aggressive rattle of the shelves and groan of the walk-in door wrenched him violently back to Earth. He heard a gasp that was neither his nor Mickey’s, and turned around to see Kash staring back in horror.


End file.
